Chapter 9: Courage and Honour

The frost bit at their heels, crunching under boots like brittle bones, five figures slogging through the black, Winterfell a faint promise somewhere ahead. Arrax was out front, big as a damn bear, cutting through the dark, his armor glinting weird under the moon—too sharp, too strange for this place. Ryk stumbled beside him, grinning like an idiot despite the cold, like he hadn't just sliced a man's hand off hours ago. Jon trailed behind, eyes locked on Ryk's back, anger chewing at him, hot and sour—sure, it was Tormund's fault, the dumb bastard swung first, but that didn't change the blood, the scream still rattling in Jon's skull. Edd was there too, grizzled Uncle Edd, steady as stone, and then Sam—poor, fat Sam—waddling at the rear, eyes wide, jumping at every rustle, every howl, breath puffing out in panicked little clouds.

They'd struck the deal, southbound now, but trust? That was a shadow, thin and slippery, sliding between them. Jon's gaze kept drifting, reeking toward Ryk, that loudmouth who'd laughed after the blade fell—laughed, like it was nothing. The night pressed in, middle of it now, heavy and haunted, wind carrying howls that curled your guts, noises of things with teeth lurking just past the trees. Arrax stopped sudden, boots sinking into the frost, "We camp here," he growled, voice like he'd gargled rocks, and nobody argued.

Ryk flopped down first, sprawled out on the dirt like a hound, snoring loud within seconds—didn't give a damn about the cold, the howls, nothing. Edd and Sam shuffled around, gathering sticks, flint sparking clumsy til a fire coughed to life, small and spitting, throwing jagged light across their faces—hard lines, tired eyes, watching each other more than the dark. Arrax sat heavy, armor creaking like an old house, staring into the flames, feeling Jon's stare prickling at him, sharp as a blade.

Jon shifted, boots scuffing the ground, edged closer, squatted down by the fire, shadows dancing in his dark eyes. "Can I… touch it?" he muttered, voice low, rough, nodding at Arrax's armor—steel like he'd never seen, not in the North, not anywhere. Arrax glanced over, crooked grin tugging his mouth, "Go on, ain't gonna bite," he said, soft but rumbling, like distant thunder. Jon reached out, slow, fingers brushing the chest plate—cold, solid, etched with twists and whorls that looked like screams frozen in iron. His gut twisted—what was this?

Questions piled up in him, thick and heavy—who was this giant, where'd he come from, what kinda knight wore steel like that?—but he knew, deep down, Arrax wasn't spilling tonight, maybe ever. Still, Jon pressed, voice dropping quieter, like the night might snatch it away, "Which lord you serve?" Arrax went still, eyes fixed on the fire, flames licking at his gaze. Then, slow, deliberate, he reached for his sword, pulled it free, plunged it into the dirt with a soft thud, kneeling there like it was holy ground. "The one and only," he murmured, voice rough, reverent, "God-Emperor."

Jon blinked, brow furrowing—God-Emperor? What the hell kinda name was that? No lord he'd heard of, no king from the South or North, nothing that fit any tale he knew. His stomach knotted tighter—this wasn't just some knight, this was something else, something far.

He shifted, boots scraping the frost, coughed into the quiet, voice gravelly from the chill, "This God-Emperor, what's he then, some king who says he's holy?" His gaze flicked to Arrax, half-braced for a laugh, but the giant's face was hard, eyes catching the firelight, dead serious.

Arrax let out a soft snort, a rumble rolling deep in his chest, "No, Jon, not like your fancy lords, not perched on some throne, he's… more, light in the black, protector, shows the way through the stars, the galaxy, all that mess." His voice kicked up, rough but alive, like he'd been waiting to let it out, "Emperor protects, guides, holds the faith when everything's gone to shit, you feel it right here," he thumped his chest, armor clinking faint, "honor, courage, the stuff that keeps you standing when the night's got teeth."

Jon blinked, brow pinching tighter—galaxy? Stars? Words that didn't sit right, like trying to jam a broadsword into a dagger's sheath. He leaned in, elbows digging into his knees, "Galaxy, that's just a big sky, yeah?" His voice slipped out half a chuckle, half a jab, trying to grab hold of it, but Arrax grinned, lopsided, shaking his head like Jon was some pup asking why snow's cold.

"Bigger than that, mate, worlds on worlds, but you wouldn't catch it, not now," Arrax said, voice dipping low, eyes sliding back to the fire, "Point is, he's it, the light, the shield, keeps us right when the dark's clawing in." He stopped, staring into the flames like they might talk back, and Jon sat there, letting it sink, words drifting past like smoke, but something hooked—honor, courage, faith propping you up. That hit, deep, like the ache he'd carried since he was a boy, wanting to be like Ned Stark, strong, honorable, more than a bastard's name.

He glanced at Arrax, this mountain of a man who'd dropped out of nowhere, armor strange and gleaming, spinning tales of gods and stars—like some knight from a story too wild to believe, but there was meat to it, something Jon could almost taste, like the oaths he'd sworn at the Wall, the ones he'd kept, the ones he'd cracked. "Sounds a bit like… the Old Gods, maybe, or the Seven, honor and all," he mumbled, voice fading, "You a knight, then? Sworn to this God-Emperor?"

Arrax's eyes snapped up, sharp, then eased, a grunt slipping out, "Knight, aye, close enough, sworn to him, to the fight, to the light," he said, voice steady, rough but solid, "No lord round here I'd kneel for, 'cept him, the one worth it." He tapped his chest again, where the armor shone, and Jon nodded slow, not getting it all, but feeling it—faith, the kind that grips you when the world's crumbling, the kind he'd seen in his father's quiet stare, in the godswood, still and sure.

The fire popped, embers skittering up, and Jon leaned back, cloak rustling, breath puffing out white, "Never heard of him, this God-Emperor, but… sounds like you'd bleed for him, like a man with honor," he said, soft, almost to himself, "That's worth something, I reckon." He kicked a stone, watched it bounce into the shadows, mind drifting—bastard or not, he'd always wanted that, to stand tall, strong, like his father, and here was Arrax, dripping with it, even if his god was a riddle.

Arrax grunted, a half-laugh, "Bleed for him, yeah, but live for him too, that's the hard bit," he said, eyes glinting, "Keep swinging, keep breathing, that's what he wants, courage to face it, honor to hold it." He shrugged, shoulders rolling like boulders, "You know it, Jon, seen it in you, you'd plant yourself where others'd bolt."

Jon's chest hitched, a flicker of heat in the cold, he looked away, staring into the fire, flames dancing wild, "Maybe," he muttered, voice thick, "maybe I try, don't always get there, but I try." He rubbed his hands, rough from steel and ice, and for a beat, they sat, two men by a fire, faith and doubt tangling between them, the night howling on, but the quiet softer now, like something passed over, even if it didn't have a name.

Ryk snorted loud, rolling over in his sleep, mumbling, "Need… warm ale," and Jon cracked a grin, shaking his head, "Your squire's a damn fool," he said, voice lifting, "but he's got spine, I'll give him that."

Arrax chuckled, a low growl, "Aye, fool with a sword, keeps it lively," he said, glancing at Ryk, sprawled like a drunk hound, "He'll learn, or he won't, either way, he's mine to haul around." The fire hissed on, embers drifting up, and Jon eased back, the night's weight slipping a bit, not trust, not yet, but something near—a nod, a shared breath, two men chasing honor their own bloody way, gods or no gods.

He'd read about Jon, back when his own legs were dead weight and his life was a pile of rot—some frayed old book, pages half-torn, telling tales of this kid with a name that didn't fit right. Seeing him now, though—scarred-up, real, sitting there with that weight in his shoulders—it wasn't just words anymore. It was sad, yeah, in a way that twisted Arrax's gut. Jon always thought less of himself, like bastard was a brand burned into his skin, not just something assholes spat at him. But hell, Arrax knew better—Jon'd been raised sharper than most, trained harder, fought meaner. Compared to the sorry sods in this world or his own, Jon was a damn sight more than he gave himself credit for. Didn't need to say it, though—kid'd figure it out someday, or he wouldn't. Not Arrax's job to fix him. He remembered the story, most of it anyway, and he wasn't here to muck it up—just nudge it along, keep it rolling predictable-like.

Still, watching Jon stare into that fire, all quiet and chewed-up inside, Arrax felt that itch—like maybe a few words wouldn't hurt, something to rattle around in Jon's skull when shit got dark. He shifted, armor groaning loud, cleared his throat, voice coming out like gravel, "Y'know, Jon, i was labeled something like un-operational, unusable once, but for men like us, it doesn't mean shit in the end. It's what you continue to do whats left in your hand, the breath in your chest." He thumped his own chest, steel clanking dull, "Emperor doesn't give a damn about names—just the fight, the stand, the grit to keep swinging when it's all closing in. So I want you to do the same, like what I did, your faith and effort will bear fruit. I promise ye."

Jon sat there, shoulders hunched like he'd been carrying a mule on his back all day, but that smile—shit, it was small, crooked, almost shy, like Arrax's rough-edged sympathy had pried something loose in him. He didn't say much after that "Thanks," just let it hang there, soft, while he stared at the embers, like maybe they'd glow back with some kind of answer. Arrax leaned back, armor groaning like an old man's knees, the cold sneaking through the gaps, his breath puffing out in little clouds that got lost in the wind's howl—wolves, maybe, or something nastier, stalking out there in the black beyond the trees.

Then Ghost padded in, quiet as a ghost oughta be, his fur catching the firelight, glowing almost, all white and wild, but his eyes—fuck me, those eyes were wrong. Jon reached out, same as always, hand sinking into that thick fur, patting him like he's done a hundred times, but Arrax felt it first, that itch crawling up his neck, like when you know someone's staring at you from across the room. Ghost's eyes were all white, milky, no red, no spark—just blank, like he'd seen something that scrubbed the life right out of 'em. Jon's hand stopped dead, hovering there, and he frowned, slow, "Ghost?"—voice thick, like he'd just woke up from a bad one and wasn't sure he was out of it yet.

Arrax shifted, leather creaking, his gut twisting like he'd eaten something sour. "Something's off," he muttered, half to himself, and Jon caught it, head snapping up, eyes narrowing as he clocked those white eyes too. "What… what's wrong with him?" Jon rasped, barely loud enough to hear over the wind, but Ghost didn't flinch—just turned his head, slow as you please, locking that eerie-ass stare on Arrax. It was like a hook in his chest—Touch me, see—and hell, curiosity's a bitch, ain't it? His hand was moving before he could talk himself out of it, fingers brushing the wolf's head, and then—bam—it hit like a fist to the face.

Everything snapped. One second he's by the fire, smelling smoke and pine, the next he's flying—trees blurring past, wind screaming in his ears, frost biting his cheeks so hard it burned. He landed somewhere cold, colder than death, dark as hell, and there's this old man stuck in a tree—roots twisting around him like he's part of it, eyes white as Ghost's, staring right through him, into him, like he knew every damn mistake Arrax ever made. His memory jolted, sharp..

'The Three-Eyed Raven!'